


A Love Story

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Body Horror, Imprisonment, M/M, Recovery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Izuna is in him, has sustained him when no one else could. More than friends, more than family, more than lovers—they’re connected and Tobirama owes this man his life.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Izuna
Comments: 12
Kudos: 95





	1. Coming Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perelka_L](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perelka_L/gifts).



> This began as a mini-series in my horror anthology, [Monsters and Marionettes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898752/), and grew to be something more. 
> 
> **Warnings: Nonspecific descriptions of gore. Consensual cannibalism. Two completely broken men who have a long road of recovery ahead of them.**

“Well, this is nice,” Izuna announces with faux cheer as he does every so often, the only tell being a slight hitch in his breath as he shifts to a more comfortable position.

Not that there’s anything like comfort to be had here, deep in the belly of a beast—a war machine propagated by greed and hubris. Tobirama digs his nails into the bedrock just to reaffirm he’s alive. Each pinprick of pain flares brightly before it’s subsumed by the intimate, whole-body ache he’s come to know like a lover. They’ve been in this dark prison—bound and bereft of chakra—long enough for even Tobirama’s preternatural sense of time to have abated into nothingness. Hunger pangs have come and gone, leaving only an odd sense of listless euphoria in their wake. He laughs, tries to at least, but all that comes out is a dry, airy cough.

“Better than an onsen,” he agrees, smiling with lips so chapped they’re bloody. Despite his expression remaining unseen, he finds comfort in the fact that at least his appreciation for Izuna’s dark humor is evident in his voice. Funny how pain shared can bring the unlikeliest of people together.

“Yeah. Why go to a hot spring when you can spend however long in this literal shit hole? The air here is perfect for my skin.” There’s a soft rustle, the sound of a body being dragged closer. Each resounding slap of Izuna’s hands is punctuated by a grunt of effort.

Their captors were clever. Unlike most shinobi, who would take the opportunity to gloat by means of fists, kunai, and expletives alike, these mercenaries understood the danger inherent in taking such powerful men as Senju Tobirama and Uchiha Izuna. They had been taught the merits of delayed gratification.

Never handle the enemy more than you have to, lest they have power that you didn’t account for.

Bindings can be slipped, so all traps should accommodate for that inevitable escape by being layered thicker than an onion. Chakric seals, earthen boundaries, stolen senses—diversification is key. 

For all their chakra, men are weak in the face of their more human needs. Hunger. Thirst. Take from your prisoners everything, make them less than human, and death will be assured without personal risk.

Only then should you return to claim the trophies of your kill.

It’s a strategy Tobirama never had the patience or need to enact, but he can admire the ingenuity. However, he’s fairly certain Izuna, for all his bluster and show-boating, doesn’t share in his academic appreciation.

“Do you hear how rough this fucking floor is? It’s exfoliating my kimono right off. Best skin-care regime I’ve ever had.” 

“I’ll be sure to avert my eyes,” Tobirama assures, his drawl filling the small, sealed room they’ve been left in to be forgotten. “Though, I must give my compliments to our hosts for being so thoughtful as to make your appearance palatable for me.”

There’s a snort, a long, sustained groan, then heat fills the sensory void next to Tobirama’s shoulder where he rests against the frigid stone wall. A wet palm feels its way over his hip, reaching across his lap in search of his remaining hand. Once located, Izuna laces their filthy fingers together, ignoring the way they stick—blood, dirt, and the trappings of internment the only thing between them.

The touch is welcome in this dark, pain riddled hell-scape, though Izuna brings with him the concentrated stench of untreated wounds and an unwashed body. It’s fine. Tobirama is certain he’s not faring any better, as much as he’s become accustomed to the smell of his own rot.

He squeezes Izuna’s hand, prompting him to continue.

“The private bathhouse amenities are a nice touch, too,” Izuna chirps, hissing when he slips sideways in his shuffling and leans into Tobirama’s tacky left side. It takes a second to figure out where their remaining limbs go, but ultimately they manage to settle into a comfortable slouch against each other—well, as comfortable as anything has been for a long time. Amazing that before this debacle they were the worst of enemies when they get along so well now.

Tobirama thinks that they could have even been friends of a sort in a different life. 

He kisses the top of Izuna’s head, immediately regretting it, and swallowing the bile to keep his chin resting there nonetheless. The Uchiha’s typically luxurious hair is greasy and caked with Sage knows what, all of which fail to overwhelm Tobirama’s instinctual need for comfort—a need they share.

“I’m enjoying the concubine they provided this evening,” he retorts, stroking what remains of his left arm across Izuna’s ribs where it’s pinned between them. “He has a lovely voice. Great legs.”

That earns him another chuckle, felt as well as heard. “Oh? Our hosts must have good taste. Which, speaking of, the food here is to die for.”

They rest their heads together and share a laugh, breathy and mirthless.

“Izuna,” Tobirama chides without heat.

“What? It’s been a while. It’s your turn, you know?”

Yes, it has been a while, Tobirama is well aware. His stomach felt as if it was digesting itself for what must have been days before his body finally succumbed to the realization that there would be no more meat to slake the hunger. They had held on for so protracted a time, Izuna and himself—consummate shinobi willing to do anything to survive long enough to outwait their captors and slaughter the mercenaries upon their return. But at this point, they’re both weak and burning with fever, ravaged beyond recovery.

Even if they were to face the bastards now, they would be felled quickly in their impotence. Tobirama with his gnawed to the bone arm. Izuna and his devoured leg.

They have no hope of surviving this.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass,” he says, uncharacteristically soft. ‘It’s time’ goes unspoken between them, but the implication resounds loud as a battle gong.

Time to accept defeat, time to rest, time to die. 

Izuna shifts more fully against him, pushing in so close Tobirama can feel the protruding femur of his residual thigh catch at what little remains of his hakama. Instinctively seeking that same security—the physical reaffirmation that neither one of them is alone—Tobirama wrests his single hand free and uses it to pull Izuna fully into his embrace.

With nothing more to be done, they sit in the darkness and take solace in the sluggish beat of their hearts and the putrid breath they share.

“We’re going to take them out like we planned, right?” Izuna asks, smaller than Tobirama has ever heard him.

“Absolutely.”


	2. Falling Apart

Tobirama wakes to pain.

Blinding, insurmountable agony, no more debilitating than the familiar scrape of teeth against bone, but different and all the more powerful for it.

The world is moving in ways he can’t understand and there’s a fire igniting beneath his eyelids, blinding him as summarily as the darkness of their prison. Light, he realizes. It’s been so long since he’s witnessed it or felt the warmth of the sun against his skin. For a tense moment, he winces and curses his mind for tempting him with imaginings of impossible things—early spring wind buffeting his hair, the muted thrum of chakra as it hums through the core of him, the softness of well-rounded muscle beneath his cheek. These aren’t things he’s allowed, not here in this dank coffin.

But then he begins to hear Izuna’s voice as if from far away. It grows fat and heavy with every passing second as the world seems to resolve into something with substance. He’s angry, louder than Tobirama has heard him in quite some time. Every other word pierces through the fog and breaks around him like anguish, stripped raw and devoid of the inappropriately dark humor that has bolstered them both through their internment. A desperate entreaty Tobirama can’t help but reach towards. Anything to sooth the pain and share the warmth and hope inherent in his hallucinations—to offer even a moment of reprieve from their nightmare. 

“Don’t touch him!”

The screech is overwhelming. Cacophonous. Tobirama’s ears ring with more than just tinnitus and he finally realizes that he has to open his eyes. That’s Izuna, his precious Uchiha, so far past the verge of panic he’s become half-hysterical with it. Blinking quickly, Tobirama grits his teeth and cracks open his eyelids in increments. The edges of the world run together like an ink-washed canvas, only gaining color as he fights through the welling tears. Blurs of green and brown bloom, resolving into something vaguely blob-shaped and after some time he recognizes it’s the canopy of a forest. Despite the agony of what feels like looking into the sun, they’re actually in the shade of a giant tree heavy with spring flowers.

He arches his neck back from the strong plinth he’s draped across and focuses on the sounds of struggle, letting his head drop to hang limply and watch the world unfold from upside down. 

There’s indigo and black. So much black. Izuna. By the Sage he’s lovely. Filthy, gaunt, riddled with gaping wounds, and more beautiful than any man Tobirama has ever seen.

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Izuna screams, clawing at the arms of his captor in an attempt to close the distance between himself and Tobirama. His nails—grown long and jagged from scraping against the floor of their cell—pull forth long tears in the shinobi’s mantle, catching at the loose threads in his thrashing. There’s fresh blood, Tobirama can smell it, but he can’t tell whose it is.

An explosive hiss, then a booming voice tears through the glen, one Tobirama would know anywhere, though not recalled fondly. “Fire’s balls, Izuna! Would you stop—” That’s no trophy-bound mercenary, and if Uchiha Madara is here—if this is anything close to being real and not another horrid fever dream—Izuna is finally safe.

Safe with the promise of recovery, of living to dance again in the firelight and bless this disgusting world with a single bright point for penitents to worship with hands outstretched. To catch even a single spark would be a blessing beyond any other, as Tobirama has had the fortune of discovering over these past weeks.

Lashing out with his one remaining leg, Izuna manages to land a blow with the last of his strength and snaps his teeth just shy of his own brother’s throat. Everything about him in this instance is feral. Captivating. Tobirama has never been more entranced by a man so covered in blood, shit, and the signs of internment.

Finally alert enough to move, he takes heart in the way Izuna fights with all he has and offers his own resistance in kind. Whomever was tasked with carrying him—and it’s a man, not a plinth he discovers—is ill-prepared for Tobirama to roll out of his arms and land sloppily on his feet, crashing to his knees only a heartbeat later when his legs crumple from disuse. Leaves and sticks crunch between his fingers, sharp beneath his palm, though the ache barely registers.

As swiftly as he can, Tobirama falls into a lurching crawl to close the distance between them. Izuna, wild-eyed with desperation, manages to evade Madara’s grasp by pitching himself to the ground as well and scrambling over to meet him halfway despite having only one leg and no strength to speak of. They’re ghosts of who they used to be—knobby, sunken cheeked wraiths bent of survival for no other reason than life is all they’ve ever known.

It’s habit to fight in protection of his own life. But now, now they bear arms in the form of teeth and claws for each other. 

Izuna slams into him and frantically clutches at Tobirama’s shoulders, pulls him in, twines them together until there’s no knowing where one ends and the other begins. Equally as distraught, Tobirama cups the back of Izuna’s head to anchor him and hides his face in the safety of a too-thin neck. This is all he has left, this all-consuming love born of the bond of survival. 

Voices rise in alarm and confusion, but they fall into the background as soon as Izuna speaks.

“Tobirama,” he moans, voice thick and wet. “Tobi. You’re here. You’re really here. It’s real. It’s real. It’s _real_.”

There’s no way of knowing how to gauge what’s real or not anymore, so he defers to Izuna’s judgment in this. Swallowing heavily, he nods. As they shudder through the joy of their reunion—exchanging dry, wracking sobs—the warmth of a broad, powerful hand descending on his shoulder makes Tobirama flinch. Before he can even react, Izuna is scrabbling up to straddle his lap, wrapping his arms around his shoulders more fully as if to protect him.

“Get your filthy fucking hands off of him! He’s _mine_ ,” he snarls, making to lunge at whomever dared come too close. The thought of pulling apart has Tobirama wrapping his arm around slim hips and holding tight against the attempt. He can’t leave.

He _can’t_.

Footsteps backpedal through the leaves in a series of shuffling crunches. “Otouto,” a voice stammers, barely heard over Izuna’s raving and soothing in its familiarity.

Hashirama.

If his Anija is here, if the Senju and Uchiha are working in conjunction, then Izuna’s wounds can be healed. Tobirama looks down to the soggy weight slapping against his lap. Sage, his thigh looks foul—black and gangrenous, oozing with pus—but he can’t find it in him to be repulsed by anything that is a part of this man.

Uchiha Izuna, his savior, who fought back the darkness for however long they languished in that deep, fetid hole and can only ever be beautiful in Tobirama’s eyes.

Those are his teeth marks scored into the exposed length of femur, gouged out like little scoops when he ate his fill in the dark. Bile rises at the remembrance of gnawing his way through tendon and ligament to free the lower half of this leg and suck out the last dregs of bone marrow.

Izuna is in him. Has sustained him when no one else could. More than friends, more than family, more than lovers—they’re connected and he owes this man his life.

“Peace, Izuna,” he chides gently. Rubbing his stub of an arm up and down Izuna’s ribs calms him every bit as effectively as it had in the prison they shared. “Allow my brother to heal us. For me.”


	3. Building a Home

It’s pleasant here in Konoha, this sprawling mausoleum in the shape of a village. Amazing how something so simple as the love born between two ghosts can bring together such disparate clans. 

During its founding, Madara had posited the idea of a split plan, Uchiha housed on one side of the village, Senju on the other, with a swath of neutral territory for municipal goods and systems serving as the bond between. It was a solid suggestion considering the unresolved animosity between their clans, but one Izuna wasn’t going to humor for an instant. A single breath not drawn in Tobirama’s company would be his last. 

The Senju had managed just fine for the eight months Madara and his retinue forcibly invaded them while Izuna and Tobirama recovered under Hashirama’s care; the rest of them will figure it out as well. Or they won’t. As long as the outside world is wise enough to leave Izuna alone with his personal lodestone, he’ll be content with however it chooses to revolve. 

Taking in the scent of skin and home, Izuna burrows his nose further into the side of Tobirama’s neck and lips at the delicate hollow beneath his ear. His Senju’s hair is longer now, thick enough to half hide in the shadow of his plait. Sometimes when he shifts just right he can close his eyes and remember—the filthy press of skin and a wraith’s embrace holding back the cold. 

As often as they’ve housed the other in their bodies, the taste of that unique copper tang lingers soul-deep. 

Izuna tightens his arms around Tobirama’s ribs and widens his thighs to bring them flush from chest to hips. The rumble of that baritone voice is a familiar comfort even if the words are sharp over his shoulder. Biting.

“You are worrying over nothing. We’re content to stay in for the day,” Tobirama snaps, not deigning to look up from his scroll. It’s a treatise on seal-work from Uzushiogakure that he memorized from the first reading, but still serves as a great excuse to tarry a while wrapped up in each other. Izuna wouldn’t be surprised if he has divots on either side of his spine where the wooden handles rest by habit.

“But it’s not just today,” Madara roars back, backlit and imposing in the entryway to the home they all share. He yanks at his robes of office, wrenching his obi so tight that pride is the only thing keeping him from hissing in discomfort. “Neither of you have left the house in over a month. It’s not healthy to stay isolated like this.” 

An unfair accusation. They take long walks in the forest where the dirt oozes up between their bare toes. On special occasions Tobirama will use his doton to dig holes and they’ll make a night of it. They get out plenty. 

“We’ll go out and feed the koi later,” he turns to offer in concession, quickly returning to the comfort of Tobirama’s heat. 

“Damn it, Izuna. That’s not what I meant!”

Izuna is well aware a bout of fresh air isn’t truly what Madara’s after. His brother, though well meaning, wants to go back to a time when Izuna was only half a person pretending himself whole. Back before his internment—prior to finding his place in Tobirama’s bones and the taste of his flesh—he was no more than an empty vessel going through the motions. Tobirama is his anchor, his reason, and no one will ever fully understand their bond. 

They’ll never need company because they’ll never want for having each other.

Tatami mats shuffle under Tobirama’s knees as he abruptly throws down his scroll and gets a grip of Izuna’s waist, binding them together as inescapably as shackles. The handles strike first and clatter against the living floorboards Hashirama raised to support both main-line families in the same residence, followed by the irreverent thump of parchment.

In a thousand little ways, Tobirama is always quick to reaffirm where Izuna stands in his regard—over the pursuit of knowledge, over family, over everything. 

“You’re being ridiculous. We go through this every single morning. Yes, we’ll eat at some point, and no, we will not be joining you in the tower, for lunch out, nor any other contrivance you think to be clever enough to force our hand. Izuna and I are content to spend our time in each other’s company without your interference,” Tobirama snarls back without fear. “Know your place, Uchiha.”

It’s concerning the way Madara stumbles on his words—guttural noises of affront and betrayal as pained as the furrows in his brow. Chakra lashes the silk wall hangings of crows with wings outspread, setting them into flight. “How could I when you’ve _stolen it_?” he finally manages, chest rising and falling rapidly under the crest of Konohagakure emblazoned on his breast.

And that’s a bit dramatic even for him. It’s not that Madara’s place in his heart has been overtaken, it’s just that Tobirama’s is so much more important. Izuna loves his brother with the unerring strength of an inferno, but the rip current of his special Senju has subsumed that flame and taken him into depths the most blazing rays of sunlight can’t reach.

There’s peace to be had in the darkness. Reassurance. Warm skin and pliant thighs.

Uchiha Izuna and Senju Tobirama died in a dank prison under the earth some two years ago and what emerged from that study in human misery was one person in two distinct bodies. Hashirama seems to understand the shape of their shared joy a bit more than his Nii-san despite the fact his eyes rarely reflect the brilliance of the smile he shows them. 

As if summoned, Konoha’s co-ruler sweeps into the room from the kitchen and sets down a kettle of tea and one cup on the chabudai before them. Steam curls from the spout, thick with the fragrance of chamomile and lemon balm.

“That’s enough, Tobi,” he admonishes, making sure to angle the kettle for easy access on Tobirama’s right side. A thin tendril of mokuton rises from the floor to playfully tweak first Tobirama’s braid, then the end of Izuna’s ponytail.

“I really wish you two could get along. Family shouldn’t fight like this, you know?”

Tobirama grunts under Izuna’s cheek and only digs his fingers in further. The dull ache is a comfort, as is the reminder of his residual arm—the flesh that sustained them—coming up to press against the back of Izuna’s neck. Family, yes. Absolutely.

“Fine,” he grinds out between clenched teeth.

Hashirama sighs as he smooths down the front of his Hokage robes and dons the stupidly large hat of office with its yang symbol in direct complement to Madara’s yin. They make an imposing pair, both gods in their own right and linked by fate to stand shoulder to shoulder against the cruelties of the world. Like this, though, with color in their cheeks and hands clasped firmly between them, they’re just two men trying too hard to fix something that isn’t broken.

“He’s _my_ otouto,” Madara continues to argue, stressing the word and giving it teeth. Even so, the whirlwind of smoke and ash chakra dies down into the gentle gale that typically precedes him. Easy to anger, easy to placation. Silly Nii-san.

“Izuna is still your otouto, my friend.” Hashirama lifts Madara’s hat to run his fingers through the haphazard mass of hair and make some sort of order out of it. The attempt is no more successful than usual and culminates in a long minute of fussing before it can be leveled properly. “Come on, we’re going to be late,” he bemoans as if he wasn’t the reason for it.

Snorting in derision, Madara takes him by the upper arm and slings him through the door, abruptly slamming the shoji screen in their wake. It rattles in its frame like an unfinished conversation.

“The Hatake wanted to meet at dusk to go over some things, so we won’t be back until late. Hikaku made wagashi if you want it, or there’s pickled fish and rice in the storage seal on the counter. Love you!” Hashirama yells through the rice paper, his voice growing smaller with distance.

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Tobirama retorts dryly.

Izuna laughs, deep and heartfelt into the divot between his clavicles. “Fuck, I thought they’d never leave. Come on, come on, let’s go! It’s your turn to do me.”

A nip to follow has Tobirama groaning and surging up to his feet in a wave of power that upends the tea pot and floods the table. It’ll dry by the time their brothers return and they’ll just claim they drank it the same way they’ll toss the rice and pickled fish to the koi and profess themselves stuffed. There are more important meals to be had, not that anyone would understand.

“Another week of choking down rice and I think I would have had to resort to burying my face in your thighs while our brothers watched,” Tobirama says, his sullen affect belied by the way his hand trembles in anticipation as he supports Izuna’s weight where buttock meets thigh on his stump of a leg.

And what a sight that would have been—an intrepid mouth and Izuna’s heartfelt moans, arching and spreading his legs wide to accept his other half between them. Not for sex, but to offer up a taste of himself. Madara would have died inside the moment Tobirama set teeth to skin. 

Hashirama is probably well aware of the perversions they get up to when given the opportunity. Konoha’s foundations speak to him and there’s no way whispers of blood stains between the slats of the floorboards under their futon would go unremarked. Still, it’s nice to pretend there’s no one to witness what they do in the dark.

It’s like a living memory, more intimate than the sharingan. Sweeter in that it’s real.

“Okay already, enough with your voyeur kink. Bedroom, _now_ ,” Izuna whines as he digs his heel into Tobirama’s hip pointedly.

Chakra gathers before he can say anything further.

In a flash of yellow light, the room shifts and he watches as the ceiling moves away with a swiftness only aborted by the impact of a plush futon against his back. Tobirama lands on him—so much thicker than when they first fell together like this—and takes no time in pushing up onto his one good arm.

Long, lean muscle edges its way under Izuna’s thighs to lift his hips and free the back of his obi. Tobirama has long, narrow fingers; they’re something Izuna delights in. Yet here, with the vessel of his deliverance panting in anticipation over him, he can’t pull his gaze away from red lips and redder eyes. Color never existed in the world until this gorgeous force of nature, looming tall and twice the man for all the pieces he’s missing. If this isn’t love, Izuna doesn’t know what is.

Heart racing, he props himself up on his elbows and swivels his hips to urge the ties of his fundoshi to loosen by force of will alone. They tear under Tobirama’s teeth instead and Izuna can practically feel his soul ascend. They’re so close. Hot breath where tendon stands out on his inner thigh, the first lap of tongue along the divots of muscle. He throws his head back and revels in the first, searing press of lips.

“Un,” he groans, so close to completion for all that his cock lies flaccid between his legs. “The lights—fuck—do the lights.” It’s one part command, two parts plea.

“You’re the one with working hands. You activate the wards,” Tobirama retorts through a mouthful of flesh. He bites down on the thickest of the scars along Izuna's thigh, not hard enough to break skin, but just enough to make his breath hitch.

Going through the motions of forming the hand seals is far more difficult for a master of the sharingan. It’s just that his blood sings and every thought flies back to those glorious days and nights spent swallowing around a gift that never seemed to stop giving. Not a cock; nothing so banal, but Tobirama's missing arm bears the proof of an even more potent sin.

By some miracle, he manages to get through the sequence on the third try and all of the light in the room fades to nothingness.

There’s the distinct impression of walls around them, the metronomic drip of condensation from a roof made of stone and chakra-infused clay. Even the smell is the same. Putrid, divine. And as the temperature drops noticeably enough to raise gooseflesh, Tobirama works his mouth in earnest to open the first wound—to take that first bite of the perfectly rounded residual limb that has had his claim carved from the inside out for the past two years.

Izuna screams under the bright flare of pain as if it’s their first time, knowing no one will come. Throat raw, he bucks and claws at the bedding, his own skin, Tobirama’s hair. His pain belongs to the perfect creature settled between his legs like it’s his right, because it is. It always has been no matter if neither of them realized until it was almost too late.

“Please,” he begs, desperate and gasping with it, “please don’t stop.” Another bludgeoning wave of agony settles in his loins and makes every breath a battle. “Take it all!”

And Tobirama does. He fills his belly with the only meal that can truly sustain them until the futon is drenched in blood and sensation wavers to the point of incoherence. Izuna tries to spew another litany of praises, but can’t. The telltale scrape of teeth against bone is a benediction like no other and finally, _finally_ , they both have what they need to continue living.

In that beloved prison, Tobirama had given his word that they would never be separated, that when flesh fails them their souls will feed off of each other for perpetuity. For now, they have to be content in knowing Tobirama will use Izuna’s limp hand as his second to make the appropriate seals for his iryo ninjutsu. The wounds will fill and fade, but the new teeth marks scoured into his femur will belong to Izuna until death. 

And after.

Time continues to pass in snatches of sound—slurping, grinding, the explosive crack of bone under the power of chakra-enhanced jaws. 

There’s nothing to base it on, but Izuna imagines the room would be spinning from blood loss right now. Pain turns to white-capped pleasure. He thinks he might be coming to life. Might be dying. Either way, he’s exactly where he wants to be.

The next time they’re alone, he’ll offer this ecstasy in turn.

No matter what, they’ll be together.

"Always."


End file.
